WARREN'S
mad drive had not passed altogether unnoticed. May Mannering, with a
growing appre­ciation of the qualities of the groom Wilson, was
waiting for him in the quietest lane leading out of Arncliffe, the
lane which led to Foxgill Moor. She had seen Warren go past with a
companion whom she did not recognize. But her quick eye had taken in
the bundle under the leather apron; and it seemed to her that there
was a projecting foot which could not possibly belong to either
Warren or his com­panion.

She
had practically given up all hope of bringing Warren back to his
allegiance, and the production of a bank-book, showing a credit
balance of close on two hundred pounds, made Wilson distinctly a
persona grata. So, of course, when Wilson arrived, she told him what
she had seen, and the groom, still intensely jealous of Warren, was
only too de­lighted to put a bad construction on the incident.

"Up
to some devilment, you may bet," he said, yet really thinking
nothing of the matter.

Between
Bradshaw and Lester the close friend­ship which sprang up,
although they had known each other for so short a time, was in no way
weak­ened by recent events. Next morning, when the American
learned that Lester had not been in the inn all night, he was
genuinely disturbed. His first idea was that the young doctor had
returned to London, but the presence of Lester's luggage,
supplemented by an inquiry at the local station, effectually disposed
of that theory. The individual who combined within himself the post
of booking-deck, ticket collector, and station-master at Arncliffe
said emphatically that Lester had not been near the station during
the past three days. Obviously, he must have gone to the Hall and
stayed there. To the Hall Bradshaw went without any delay.

In
the grounds he met Phyllis Harland, who, indeed, expected him, and
who had arranged a special curl on her forehead for his benefit.

Miss
Harland knew perfectly well that he would arrive early. She had made
a gratifying conquest in a record time, and the only thing which
troubled her was a "nasty, mean, unfair" habit, to use her
own adjectives, the American had of making her do as he told her. She
was always planning how she would bring him to his knees, but,
somehow, her plans just failed. He knelt metaphorically, and pleaded
as nicely as she could wish; nevertheless his plea always seemed a
command. It was in­tolerable.

Poor
Phyllis had tried demureness, sauciness, and trustful dependence,
without attaining that tyran­nical ascendancy over him which she
wished to establish. Now, as a last desperate resort, she tried being
natural.

"How
are you, Mr. Bradshaw?" she said, holding out her hand and
looking at him with frank, honest eyes.

"I
am very well," said Bradshaw, "but at the same time very
worried. Dr. Lester has disappeared mysteriously, and this
neighborhood appears to be so unhealthy that I am rather afraid he
may have struck trouble of some sort."

"Oh,
dear!" exclaimed Phyllis. "Poor Edith!"

"Poor
Edith?" cried Bradshaw, curiously.

With
true masculine density, he had not realized that there was any sort
of tender feeling in existence between his friend and the young
mistress of Arn­cliffe.

"Well,"
said Bradshaw again, mildly. "Why should it kill the poor girl?"

"Oh!"
— Phyllis was out of patience — "if ever I have charge of
you —" she stopped in utter con­fusion, and made what
Bradshaw would have called a "bee line" to the Hall.

The
American, alternating between effulgent joy and intense gloom, walked
at her side. He was wondering whether Edith would relent and accept
his proposal. Had it not been for that now appall­ing
possibility, he was capable of prostrating him­self at the feet
of Miss Phyllis then and there, although he had known her only three
days — and, be it confessed, Miss Phyllis was entirely capable of
accepting him. She had met what she urgently needed, a man of whom
she was afraid.

Edith,
sunning herself on the balcony, gave them a smiling welcome,
delighted, though, it may be, a trifle surprised, to see the pair
such good friends. "Well, young people," she called out
brightly.

Phyllis
was full of her news. She adored Edith, but there was a breathless
joy in telling of Lester's disappearance which overcame all other
considera­tions. She arrested Bradshaw with an imperious gesture.
"Stop there!" she said. Then, rushing to her friend and
clasping her in her arms, she poured forth a narrative from which
little was to be gathered save that some calamity had befallen
Lester.

Edith
stiffened and drooped her head. The situation justified a fainting
fit; but she was not the fainting type of woman, though she had
fainted once at the inquest under deep stress. Besides, there was
Bradshaw looking on.

"My
dear girl," she cried with a forced laugh, "Dr. Lester is
not a child. You must not think that because there have been two
extraordinary incidents here, the place is abounding in murderers and
brigands."

Yet
she had become exceedingly pale, and her mouth was awry with what she
meant to be a smile of indifference.

"Of
course," said Bradshaw, coming to the rescue. "Lester's all
right. So far as I could judge him, he is a man who could easily lick
his weight in wild­cats. At the same time, I'd feel pretty good
if he'd put in an appearance."

"Do
not let us worry ourselves about Dr. Lester," repeated Edith.
"He is, I am sure, quite capable of taking care of himself. If
you will come in, Phyllis, I will give you some of the loveliest
choco­lates you have ever tasted."

Bradshaw,
slightly surprised by her seeming flip­pancy, strolled away with
Phyllis toward a flight of steps leading to the veranda. But, when
they reached the top, Edith had left the garden to see Wilson, who
had sent an earnest request for an interview.

Edith
was beloved and respected by all the ser­vants -- respected all
the more because, whether as Lord Arncliffe's paid secretary or as
the mistress of Arncliffe Hall, she had always treated them with the
same unfailing and kindly dignity.

"Well,
Wilson?" she asked, as the groom stood twirling his cap uneasily
in his hand. " What is it?"

"Why,
miss, I — I — of course it may be nothing, but I thought it my
duty to tell you. I heard down at the inn that Dr. Lester has not
been there all night, and something has come to my knowledge which
makes me think it possible the gentleman has met foul play."

"Yes,"
said Edith, wondering what there could be behind all this mystery,
"yes, go on!"

"Well,
miss, there's a young lady I — I am keep­ing company with,
and last night she saw Master Harry driving like mad with some one in
the gig. There seemed to be a sort of bundle under the apron, and
she's pretty sure that there was a foot sticking out at the side of
the trap, I know it's not my place to speak against Mr. Warren, but
there are some queer rumors. Any one could see that Master Harry was
jealous of the doctor —"

She
walked back to Bradshaw and Phyllis, outwardly calm, but feeling that
every onward step was a miracle.

The
pair were laughing together, but Edith's haggard face arrested their
mirth. She told them what she had heard from Wilson, calmly, as she
thought and without emotion, but her mouth was quivering, and her
hands, when she unclenched them, trembled pitiably. "What do you
think, Mr. Bradshaw?" she concluded, looking up at him with eyes
of anguish.

"I
think," answered Bradshaw, still dense, as men always are where
women are concerned, "I think that things look very black for
our friend Lester."

"Oh,
no, no!" cried Edith, clasping his hand between hers and
forgetting everything save that her lover might be in peril. "Oh,
no! But you will save him, won't you? You are so good and brave and
strong. Oh, for my sake, save him!"

"Why
sure, I'll save him if there's any saving to be done. Can you give me
a horse?"

"Oh,
yes, of course. A dozen if you like."

"Never
could ride more than one at a time," said Bradshaw, cheerily
pretending not to notice her emotion. "Perhaps, under the
circumstances, Miss Harland will go and order it for me, while I
arrange matters with you. And say, Miss Harland, just tell that groom
to fix up a horse for himself. I want him to show me where Mr. Warren
was driving that peculiar load."

Phyllis
tripped away elegantly. She would be elegant on the Day of Judgment.
And when she had gone Bradshaw turned and took Edith's hands in his.

"Little
girl," he said gravely, "I think I had better withdraw that
proposal of mine. You told me a dreadful fib. There is another man,
after all. What are you going to do if I bring him back? Will you
promise not to say any more nasty things to me about Lord Arncliffe's
money?"

"I
will promise anything!" said Edith, fervently. Wilson cantered
up, leading a horse for Bradshaw, who turned to bid farewell to the
two girls.

"Don't
worry, Miss Holt," he said. "Ten to one Lester is all
right; but if he isn't I will see him through the game."

"But
you won't run any risks?" pleaded Phyllis, with the nearest
approach to real anxiety she had ever exhibited.

When
an Englishman boasts, his hearers put him down rightly as a mere
braggart, but it is dangerous to judge an American on the same lines.
He may boast, but, in his own language, he "makes good."

"Say,"
remarked Bradshaw, confidently, "there aren't any two men in the
county who are going to get ahead of me when I spread myself."

He
swung himself lightly into the saddle, took his hat off, with a
kindly smile to Edith and an ardent glance at Phyllis, and cantered
off with the easy swing of a horseman bred on the Western prairies.

On
to the village; two minutes of hasty chat with Inspector Hobson, who,
according to custom, had gone down to the post-office, and then
onward, accompanied by Wilson, until he reached the point where May
Mannering had seen Warren drive past.

"That
will do," said Bradshaw. "I will play a lone hand now. Keep
your mouth shut, partner, and you are liable to earn money."

The
American trotted slowly along the narrow lane, scanning it closely as
he went. There was no trail that it was possible to follow. But he
was not looking for tracks on the road. There were altogether too
many of them. What he wanted was an indication of tracks leaving the
road. And presently he found them. The line of the dog-cart over the
moor was so distinct that he could follow it at a hard gallop. To a
man who had ridden the prairies, the inequalities of the ground
offered no obstacles. He just hung his rein loose and left matters to
the horse.

He
held on until he came in sight of the deserted shooting-box, a place
built almost like a Martell tower. He pulled up his horse.

"I
guess," he murmured softly, and then, as the face of Leigh
appeared at one of the windows, "Surest thing, you know,"
he added, still quietly. Without further ado, he tethered his horse
to a stump and walked briskly toward the door.

Leigh
met him. Bradshaw had expected him to meet him, and the two men stood
a little apart eyeing each other warily.

"Now,"
said Bradshaw, in placid self-commun­ing, "if I didn't have
a little gun in my pocket, thirty-eight caliber, self-cocking, safety
trigger, I'd get licked out of my socks. I wouldn't fight that man in
a square rough and tumble for eleven and a half million dollars."

Leigh,
however, did not seem inclined to fight. He had often seen Bradshaw
at the inn, and he made a clumsy attempt to pass matters over.

"Not
a bit," said Bradshaw, cheerfully. "You can never learn too
much. But you had better show me up to Dr. Lester, who, I presume, is
partaking of your hospitality at the present mo­ment."

Leigh
cast a comprehensive eye around; he saw that Bradshaw was alone. The
American's lean figure seemed to amuse him.

"Meister,"
he said, "I am either going to put you with Dr. Lester up there,
or else I am going to hurt you. But if I do that, it will be your own
fault."

Bradshaw
smiled grimly. "Partner," he said cheerfully, "there
are two notches on the butt of my gun, and they represent two men who
are prob­ably complaining of the drought at this very moment.
Throw up your hands, quick!"

And
now that thirty-eight was covering the burly figure of the poacher.

"I
am giving you a little license because people don't seem to know how
to get shot in this God­forsaken country, but I'll surely kill
you in a min­ute," cried Bradshaw again.

He
was indeed right when he said that English people did not understand
getting shot. Leigh did not realize the peril of a pistol pointed at
him by a man who meant to shoot, and he ran forward like a bull.
Bradshaw, cool as ice, took a quiet aim at his antagonist's body. He
was going to hit him in the solar plexus — that spot beloved of
the prize-fighter. If you hit a man there he goes down, and in
addition there is always the pleasing possibility of cutting his
spine in two. And so Bradshaw pulled the trigger of his pistol. The
hammer dropped, but no report followed. He pulled the trigger again,
but the hammer did not answer.

That
beautiful thirty-eight "gun," which had faithfully killed
two men, had gone out of order at one of the most crucial moments of
his life.

Bradshaw
dodged away alertly, still pulling the trigger in desperation, though
he knew well that it was hopeless to expect any result. Then he flung
the useless weapon at his adversary and bolted.

It
was not a retreat, but merely a strategic retire­ment. He could
see clearly that he must be worsted in a hand-to-hand fight with the
gigantic poacher, and he was looking around for some weapon with
which to equalize matters a little. He lighted presently on a gnarled
stick, a fair enough cudgel, and returned to the fray with set teeth.
Leigh sent the disabled revolver spinning through the air to him, and
greeted this new attack with a burst of bucolic laughter.

"Don't
do it, maister," he cried. "You're a rare plucked 'un, but
there's nobody on all the bor­der that can stand against me, old
as I am."

"Isn't
there?" said Bradshaw, dangerously calm. "I don't belong
here. The only border I know is the Mexican border, and down there we
see things through to a finish."

He
was still advancing, and Leigh, realizing that in the matter of
activity he was at a serious disadvantage, stood firm, watching for
an opening. He began to understand that this lean, wiry young man was
a formidable antagonist.

Still
Bradshaw came on, so slowly that the suspense became wearing —
ten feet, nine feet, only six feet.

"Look
here, sir," — began the poacher.

Bradshaw
sprang forward, his stick uplifted to strike. It was just the sort of
foolishness Leigh looked for, and, while one arm went up like a flash
to ward the blow, the other was swung forward to clutch the American
in a grip that would hold him helpless as a child.

But
the blow did not fall as Leigh expected. The heavy stick swished
through the air, but the parry­ing arm was untouched, and an
instant afterward Leigh was rolling on the ground in uncontrollable
agony from the swift stroke that had fallen on his knee-cap.

As
Bradshaw explained afterward, there was no "fair fight"
nonsense about him. He knew that in a moment Leigh would be up again,
envenomed by his sufferings, and for that reason more formidable than
ever. So he coolly stepped over the prostrate man and dealt him a
vicious blow on the head, not extremely particular whether it might
prove fatal or not.

"I
guess, partner, you've miscalculated on borders, this trip," he
muttered, looking at his fallen foe, from whose head there ran an
ugly trickle of blood. "And now for Lester."

He
strode into the house and instinctively made his way to the upper
rooms, coming at length to a locked door.

"Lester!"
he shouted: "Lester!"

There
was no answer.

"Good
Lord! They've wiped him out! I must go and see if that old border
champion has the key."

He
went down again, and, to his surprise, found Leigh sitting up and
rubbing his head, a little dazed, but apparently not much the worse
for his injuries. Bradshaw was frankly afraid even now of this man
with the sinister face and enormous chest develop­ment, but he
went up to him with all the arrogance of a conqueror.

"Now,
then," he said, sharply, "Where is Dr. Lester? No, no, sit
quiet, my friend, or this time I'll kill you for keeps!"

Leigh
was thoroughly cowed. He had not for­gotten that merciless blow,
dealt him when he lay helpless on the ground. This slightly built
man, with the thin mouth and unflinching eyes, was a revelation to
him.

"Don't
be hard on a poor chap," he whined. "The doctor is
up-stairs, as well as you are. I'd just taken him a bit of grub when
you came."

"By
gum!" he cried, "I told Maister Warren the doctor was a
real gentleman! He gave his word he wouldn't utter a sound if we
didn't gag him, and I trusted him."

"Here,"
said Bradshaw, "go up ahead of me and let him out. No nonsense,
mind, or I'll brain you."

Thus
politely adjured, Leigh led the way to Lester's prison-room, and in a
minute rescued and rescuer were clasping hands.

"Why
in thunder didn't you answer when I called just now?" asked
Bradshaw.

"I
could not," answered Lester, simply. "I had given my word."

"Say,"
exclaimed his rescuer with some disgust, "you are too good to be
true. However, it's all right now, and the sooner I restore you to
your sor­rowing friends the better. Do you know that Miss Holt is
worrying about you just a million times more than you deserve?"

"Miss
Holt?"

"Yes,
of course, Miss Holt. But come along — you can ride behind me on my
horse — and tell me about things on the way. As for you, my
friend," to Leigh, "I guess the British policeman will get
hold of you whenever you are wanted."

"I
give up, sir," said Leigh, calmly. "I saw Mr. Warren knock
the old gent on the head, and he's been bribing me ever since to keep
quiet. But I've got the books he did it for, and I'm ready to hand
them over whenever they're wanted."

"I
have settled all that," interposed Bradshaw. "I suspected
you directly Dr. Lester disappeared, and by this time Detective
Hobson has been through your place with a search-warrant. Anyway, you
can vamoose now; but if you take my advice you will stay and face the
music."

Lester
and Bradshaw mounted the horse and left Leigh to consider the
situation. Their mount was a fine up-standing animal, and entirely
capable of carrying double weight for at least a fair portion of the
journey. Luckily, however, they fell in with a farmer driving into
the village when they reached the road, and so Lester was given a
lift.

Bradshaw
was naturally eager for details of the kidnapping of Lester, but,
strangely enough, the subject seemed utterly uninteresting to the
young doctor, who kept delicately engineering the con­versation
round to Edith. What he heard filled his heart with happiness. Edith
was true, after all! And then came the despairing thought — would
she forgive him?